


Pilgrimage

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser makes a visit; Ray Vecchio keeps him company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pilgrimage

**Author's Note:**

> It's another depressing one from Desirée's House of Unrelieved Angst. (Honestly, I'm usually a total marshmallow. I wonder where that part of my writer-brain is hiding this month.)

“You don’t have to do this, Benny,” says Ray, as he often does.

“I know that,” I tell him.

“I mean, it’s nice and all, but it’s not going to make a difference.”

“It makes a difference to me,” I say.  “You needn’t come if you don’t want to.”

But he does.  He grouses and grumbles, but he follows me into the nursing home, as he always does.

The staff smile and greet us as we pass; they know us well.  I exchange hellos with Mrs. Henderson as I pass her shuffling diligently down the corridor with her walker.  Ray shadows me with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the floor.

The quiet buzz of the television greets us as we enter the room.  He’s slouched in a chair in front of the screen, but he looks around eagerly at the sound of my voice.  A delighted smile lights up his features.

Ray Kowalski’s smile is as extraordinary as ever.

Ray Vecchio lingers by the doorway while I go over to greet Ray.  I embrace him, and he hugs me back, tentatively at first, his grip firming in response to mine.

“How are you feeling today?” I ask him, as cheerfully as I can manage.

He doesn’t respond with words, of course, but his eyes track my face and he keeps smiling.

“You’re looking well,” I say.  “They must be taking good care of you.”  I keep up a stream of banalities as I make a quick tour of the room, checking that everything is in order.  Ray trails after me, watching my face and hands.

I pull the room’s only chair over near the bed and encourage Ray to settle in it, then seat myself on the bed.  He looks up at me, the smile replaced by a little frown of curiosity.  His hand steals up towards my face.

“Do you remember me?” I ask, softly, leaning forward so that he can touch me.  “Do you know my name?”

“You know he doesn’t,” mutters Ray Vecchio from his corner.  “Jesus, why do you do this to yourself?”

Ray’s hand explores my face, as a blind person might do, or an infant.  His eyes search mine, while his lips make silent shapes.  Try as I may, I cannot read my name in their movements.

“…who?”  It’s a real question, not just a random noise. 

“Fraser,” I tell him.  I take a calming breath.  “My name is Constable Benton Fraser.  Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father.”

“…father,” Ray echoes.

“It doesn’t mean anything to him,” says Ray.  “It’s just noise.”

“Maybe so,” I say.  It would be counterproductive to argue. 

I take Ray’s wandering hand between my own.  “Your name is Ray,” I tell him.  “Stanley Raymond Kowalski, but everyone calls you Ray.  You never cared much for ‘Stanley.’”

Ray Vecchio sighs loudly.

Ignoring him, I keep my eyes fixed on Ray’s.  It’s true I have no evidence that he understands my meaning; most likely he doesn’t.  But he is plainly alert to the sound of my voice, and his mobile face responds to my tone and facial expression.  So I keep talking, because Ray is listening.

“You were born in Chicago,” I tell him.  “You grew up with your parents and your older brother.  Your parents didn’t always understand you, but they loved you very much.  When you were thirteen years old—”

“Oh, Jesus, Benny, not the bank,” Ray Vecchio protests.  “He doesn’t want to hear about that—who’d want to have that be the one thing they remember about themselves?”

He has a point.  However. . .  “It was the first thing he told me about himself.  It’s an important story to him.”

“I know, I know, it’s just. . .never mind.  You do what you do.”  I look over at Ray, who's leaning against the wall near the door.  He gives me a ghost of a smile and waves his hand in a _carry on_ gesture.

“Thank you, Ray.”

Ray Kowalski is frowning a little when I turn back to him, perhaps wondering why I stopped talking.

“When you were thirteen, you fell in love with a smart, beautiful girl named Stella.”

Ray’s lips move around the shape of the name, but his face shows no emotional reaction.  He listens as I recite the story of the bank robbery, how it inspired him to become a police officer, and how he later confronted Marcus Ellery and was able to let go of the ghost of the past.  I tell him about Stella, how he loved her and lost her and let her go, too. 

Hearing the familiar words come out of my own mouth, I suddenly wonder what on earth I’m about, telling stories about the value of letting go of the past to a man with no memory.  The thought makes my tongue stumble. 

Ray blinks at the interruption of my cadence, and his smile fades, first to confusion and then to anxiety and. . .concern?  He reaches over and puts his hand on my shoulder.

Covering his hand with mine, I turn my face away to blink back my tears.

Ray Vecchio appears beside me, holding out a paper cup of water.  I take it gratefully, trying to smile at him.

“Tell him the one about the pirates and the crazy Mountie lady with the wooden ship,” he says.  “He always likes that one.”

So I clear my throat and find my smile and my best tale-telling voice and begin the story of Ray’s and my adventure on the _Henry Allen._   When I get to the part about singing _Barrett’s Privateers_ , Ray grins and rocks in time to the tune, tapping out a syncopated counter-rhythm on the arm of the chair.  Ray Vecchio hums along, pretending he still doesn’t know the words. 

Contentment wells up in me, and I cherish it, spinning out the moment by singing as many verses as I can remember.


End file.
